THE FARTIST

Ten days and four minutes ago, at an unfamaliar stop on the chicago's underground train line, a fory three year old salesman from Minneapolis walked down the concrete steps and was confronted with a young man all dressed in black, with large nose rings and lip rings and ear rings and brow rings.

Slumped against the wall frowning, the young city denizen looks up at the shocked man and starts talking in a cool, punky sneer, "Yea, I'm a fartist. No, no... I didn't say artist, dude. Those fucking posers. No, I'm a fartist. I make real statements, man. Statements that need some vile smells to show these sheep how horrible the world is. No one knows but me, man... me, the only practicing Fartist. Here, let me riff on this thought, okay.... Uhh, (A SUSTAINED LOUD FART IS HEARD, THEN FOLLOWED BY TWO MORE SHORT BURSTS OF BUTT BREEZE). That man... it's about Rwanda. I can see by the tears in your eyes that you were with me on that one all the way to the genocide.

The life of a Fartist isn't all making sixth grade boys laugh . . . no, there are darker sides, stains that just kind of come with the business. But, who am I to complain? I was the first fartest to get one of these city licenses to perform on the subway tracks. See, right there, where it says Fartist? Yea, I did put the 'f' on there, but it's still official, okay?


My dad always dreamed of being a fartist. He was just, just such a frustrated fartist. Could not fart... he tried.... he would not quit. Of course it killed him. He was all whisky drunk that morning and straining away again, trying to fart and... his eyes popped out. Shot across the wall and splattered. He bled to death before the rest of could stop screaming. He passed that dream... that spark of the fartest, on to me, and... well, the rest history -- a history, I like to say, that is written on scorched nostril hairs, but actually, I have a blog.

I do a few songs, whatever it takes to make a few tips. Often, my performances are so intense that people just throw me some money and ask me to stop playing. I understand. Too much of this shit at once could blow their fucking minds, man. You can bet no one paid off Von Gogh to quit blowing their minds. Fart, no... I say 'fart no' instead of 'shit no'... kind of a trend that I started. Well, so what if you haven't heard any one else say 'fart no?' I fucking hear it all the time, down here in the subway, where are people are keeping it real. What? I don't know why they aren't stopping... no, this isn't a closed stop... where you going, I have some of my best stuff coming up... Fucking yuppie bastard!! Hey, wait, you got a cigarette, buddy? Oh, you fucking fart splatter. I'll bet you know what this means (A SERIES OF STACCATO, MACHINE GUN LIKE FARTS ARE HEARD). Told him... man, you know what? This place is closed... I wondered, it's been like three months since I got this license and there were like, eight people, all tourists... shit, if I was someplace where people could see me, I would proabably already have my own gallery somewhere, complete with plexiglass boxed farts for sale in the gift shop, which is where most of my bean money is going to probably come from. Until then, I'll just remain what I am... a starving fartist. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

necrophyliacs lobby to marry the dead

Reporters reported to each other today that a crowd of necrophyliacs marched through downtown Chicago's Daly Plaza. Two hundred thousand strong, the local neighborhood group was waving placards and chanting, "Necrophyliacs unite-- fuck them corpses, it's your right!!" Numerous police officers on the scene were won over by this convincing arguement and broke ranks, going over to the protesters in often heart warming shows of solidarity between 'the man' and 'the people.'

Later in the afternoon, The Friends Of Animal Co-olition, a front organization for the fringe group The Union Of Bestiality Behooved, which is a front organization for Future Farmers of America-- which is a front organization for Psycho Animal Fuckers ( a shady group that may or may not be a front for the CIA), launched a sympathy strike to show their brotherhood with the fuckers of the dead, closing down their web site, LovingThatBestiality.com, which is often described by the press and cross country bikers as 'the' source for information on how to screw animals of all varieties. While hundreds of other sites make this claim as well, they all do acknowledge that Loving That Bestiality has some of the world's most renknown animal orifice lubrication specialists, an elite group that has consulted with every president since Jefferson.

When asked about what he thought, as an average corporate citizen, a passer in a three piece suit with a bold, confident stride, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, stumbled and fell to the ground in a fetus position before muttering, "No... no... they do that to us even after we're dead? Oh, god, no... they told me there was just heaven."

Thinking the prone man was dead, various Necrophyliacs broke ranks with their chanting bretheren and rushed over to sodomize the sobbing corporate prince.





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digable cats... howling, just fucking howling!!

Oddly enough, I was kind of lucky this week, happened to go out and see these excellent musicians-- I caught them at The Wise Fool's Pub in Lincoln Park, an upscale neighborhood known for having the last free zoo in the country, a strip of bars catering to drunken Depaul students, and lots of yuppies walking golden retrievers.

I seldom go out and see bands, despite having every intention to. This night J. has assured us that this band is extrodinary, given us a ride, and practically, since she is a good enough of friend to do so, forced us to go out on a weeknight. We were taking her recommendation of the band with a grain of the proverbial salt since she is hottie for a guy in the band. Her amorous wanderings have drug us into more than one weird situation . . . well, only one, but that was enough!!!

Shows in Chicago seldom start on Time. They do so just enough to trick neurotically punctual people, like myself, into spending hours sitting in bars, sipping watered down diet coke thinking, 'man, bars sure are boring... you actually have to drink to stand to be in the places. That's the hook that gets these rubes..." and other thoughts, mostly about wombats and sea otters driving big muscle cars with machine guns coming out of the sides and firing until their barrells are red hot, slaughtering all these people from the lists... well, you know the thoughts... we all have them.


No one else was in the back room where the band was setting up, on a stage with a huge black curtain strung between two equally huge white pillars. We moved a couple tables right up center front of the stage, pulled up about five chairs, popped cigarettes in our mouths and ordered diet cokes. We sat there until ten amusing ourselves all to hell, though. I had done a few bongs before heading out, so I would have been amused by a fly buzzing around the room, at first, though my weedliness wore off before the band went on stage.


The band all came up and introduced themselves; the singer, Oleana (my spelling may be off) and Brad, the drummer, sat down with us. Oleana said she was cold, so I grabbed my sheep skin, the authentic army issue bomber jacket that I wear, and draped the huge coat over her shoulders. She laughed easy and pleasent as she pulled the warm, creamy curls of sheep skin over her shoulders.

She is dark eyed with long black hair, classic features, slim as an alley cat. She has a pleasent accent in her perfect English, though you would not know this from her singing. I started asking her all kinds of questions about her country of origin, Romania -- which she had left a mere six months before -- and soon enough found out her grandmother is an opera singer, her mother some kind of famous singer, and she herself was a rock star in her country.

When she told me this, I was like, "Why the hell would anyone quit being a rock star?"

She answered in about the only sane way: "Love."

Meeting them, and enjoying what conversation I could with my deaf left ear and the loud background noise... I sure hoped they were going to be good on stage. Like I wrote, we were totally unsure if our freind J. was talking with her head or her crotch... Well, of course, when the band started, I was swept up into unique, rocking songs that were all their own, with seven musicians making a cool as hell wall of sound, and I was very, very pleased...

I am no music reviewer, as you have probably already noticed, but I do have taste that seems to be pretty well accepted as good by people who really do know music. I liked them because the guitarists were rocking, soloing a touch, the drums were driven, complex, the keyboardist playing one of my favorite instruments -- the electric violin (use it more!!)... and then there was Oleana, who's voice is about the best arguement for genetically passed talent I have heard in awhile. She could literally hit any damn note. Her range puts most rock singers to shame. I mean, the woman can sing better than anyone I have seen in a bar.... by a long shot. I see why she was a phenomena in Romania. Her stage presence is something else, too. She shunned all the Mick Jagger hopping about, and just concentrated on getting the songs perfect. In fact, I would have to say she was demure on stage, and it was such refreshing honesty after all the fucking stylists playing music in their spandex and kurt Cobain costumes. She was tuned into our table while she was on stage, and at one point she kiddingly did a rock star dance for a few seconds, and then looked at M. and J. and they all had a girly giggle moment.

Brad, the drummer, cracked jokes between the songs, and was funny in a way, again, all his own -- which when it is good, as he was, is the best kind of funny.

The songs were mostly original, and all were just great. I mean, I listen to music and am usually still, but this night, I was nodding along with the music, completly swept away. The last time this happened to me was Yo You Ma. Not that I see a lot of live music, mind you.

Digable Cats (who are not to be confused with Digable Planet, who I am not cool enough to know more about than the name) are good enough that your genre preferences will be rendered irrelevent by their musical charms.


Oleana even says she will come do one of my shows, too... Though people are always saying they will come to our shows and then don't show up. Why do people do this? I have literally had hundreds of folk do this... just shine me on... damn people!!! dogs don't make any promises they can't keep. Cats either... Not that Oleana will do this to me... right, big O?

president quits post to 'color' professionally

In a bizarre impromptu press conference today, a disheveled president Bush announced to shocked reporters that he was quitting the presidency to take up professional coloring. "I am all about the coloring now. It's just what I do, man. And staying in the lines, I can that if I want. I don't have to. Where do I sign up to become a professional color guy anyways?"

At this point the president's mother called him back into the white house.

Dick Cheney was later seen out back of the white house burning large stacks of coloring books, while from open windows in the Oval office, reporters could easily hear a cranky president throwing a hissy fit and screaming over and over, "Want to color!! Want to color!! Want to color!!"


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tiny tom buys his K. Ho a 20 million dollar airplane

K. Hole responded, "Tiny Tom, why don't you just get a penis enlargement already?"
"Man, a plane, wow... penis? My penis is monstrous... the biggest. All my Ronbots told me this, and they know everything... like I do."
"Well, if you don't want the enlargement, I guess we can keep on using your assistant's finger. The tall one with the big feet who gives me my girl thing massages."
"Girl things...ewwww. You're a girl!"
"Yes, tiny tom."

With that, Tiny Tom bounced off screaming, "Grrr! Grrrrrrr!"















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Beacho the human chair

Humans were quite the novelty when they were discovered by the federation of prosperity for all planets. Their easily manipulated genetics made breeding creatures for specific purposes easier than ever before.

Within a mere 50 thousand human years, Grackinlablitz Species was selling warm, living chairs, large eyeless meat balls, milk mothers.. and hundreds shapes and sizes of industrial tools, like an arm with tiny legs and eyes that can go deep into large industrial machines that would otherwise require complete dismantling to repair.

200 thousand years later, humans, in all their various shapes and sizes, began to slowly develop psychic abilities, and in another ten thousand, chairs, industrial anatomy parts, meat balls, etc... had become used to the chattering moans and grunts in the background of what passed for their thoughts. They had no idea what language was, how to interprete what was being said, or to say anything either... Beacho was the first to start the tentative walk down the road to the fifteen words that lead to the first great furniture wars.

Beacho was a combination caddy/outdoor chair, meant to follow his owners around at golf matches. He had eyes, ears, legs, arms -- almost all of the features of the species that was plucked off their earthly eden a million lifetimes before. Most importably, he was given a brain, because he needed to memorize golf courses throughout the world, and always know the right club for the enviornment. The beings that he led around the courses would have been very surprised to learn that the species they had bred into a caddy had invented the game that they were playing.

Beacho merely noticed that the players used 'names' to distinguish themselves from one another, and the humans did not. So one day, as an experiment, when he was sitting in a tool shed shivering from the cold and feeling weak from the miserly meals his cheap owners allowed the machines, he decided to tell his name to the voices that he heard coming from other humans. Though he did not know it yet, when Beacho screamed his name in his mind, he also sent to the machines around him his emotional state. At that moment, when he said his name, he was filled with pride and warmth over figuring out how to say his name to other machines. The humans who heard his name blazing though the usual murky words that surrounded their work command words, were filled with this same warmth and pride. Some had never known this before, others were conditioned to feel it only when ordered--which was seldom for any of them, since the beings who owned them had long, long before lost any sense that there was life in the human machines.

Beacho's shout of his name was observed by a psychic JHILkkk that happened to passing on the street. He reported the development almost instantaneously and the Hignik council took five seconds to determine that the development could lead to disorder, which would manifest in thirty nine bruises, and one broken bone.

Dilk Milllinkin, a local contract laborer, recieved a comminque telling him to confiscate the combination chair/caddy, compensate the owner out of petty funds, and then dispose of Beacho.

Beacho's death cries were heard by humans for miles around. None knew where they came from, or what they meant... still, though they knew not why, thirty nine chairs pinched the beings sitting on them hard enough to bruise, and an arm with eyes smashed a toe with a hammer.




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the official elves attic policy on crotch sniffing

Quite often, when I am walking Ruby Dog, she will sniff some babe's crotch.

Often these cutey pies just melt into cooing and petting Ruby and laughing.

Yet, when I politely ask, "Do you mind if I have a sniff?"

They act like I am an axe murderer.

Humans. Thank goodness, once again, for the whole marrying into the marsupial species thing, with my little quimy, Betty Lou Sue Chantalice X. Oppossums don't care -- you can sniff them anywhere you want. Seriously. They smell different in different places.

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Mad Donna eats anal warts with maggot pate!!!!

Yea, someone with an english accent told her it was cool.


That dum rhino horn butt fuck of a diseased slut!!! Here's the latest stupid shit to drip out of her pointless thoughts. . .

-------------------------------------------------------------------




From some newspaper:




Mad Donna's charitable toward Tom Cruise. "[Tom and I are] both in the take-a-lot-of-shit club together," says Her Madgesty, who feels they're both persecuted for their fringe faiths.

"I don't really know what ­Scientology is," says the dedicated kabbalist. "But I don't think anybody else knows, either. They need to shut the [bleep] up."
------------------------------------------------------------------------


from johnny pain:

LET ME JUST WRITE:

"HEY, MAD DONNA, YOU DUM DISGUSTING PILE OF RANCID, REEKING, WART CRUNCHY, FLY COVERED CRAP... SOME PEOPLE DO INDEED KNOW WHAT SCIENTOLOGY IS! WE ALSO KNOW HOW TO AVOID STD'S -- SOMETHING YOUR BLOOD AND PUSS DRIPPING QUIMBY SURE COULD USE.

CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SHE SAID

'NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THIS SCIENTOLOGY IS?'

DOES SHE EVEN LISTEN TO WHAT SHE IS SAYING?

Of course not... she hears only her own whims

That she thinks she is smart is so funny ... she really thinks she is smart--which in her case proves she is dum. Go figure? She gets this odd impression because the synchophents on her pay role say so. So do the kabbalists, since she gave them 18 million dollars to fund their cult-- that act alone would put her on the Pyscho Killer Shit List... had she not already earned a spot when she forced Sean Penn to act with her.

ISN'T THIS JUST LIKE A NARCISSIST TO ASSUME THAT SINCE THEY DON'T KNOW ANYTHING, NO ONE ELSE DOES?

And why does she think she is in this 'take lots of shit 'club, ANYWAYS? Because she deserves to be buried in piles of steaming, creamy cat crap... and drown.



TOM -- THE ARDENT ASS LICKING UNEDUCATED TWIT FOR BRAIN -- CRUISE DOES THE SAME thing.. They hate psychiatrists so much because THOSE WITH even MINOR TRAINING IN DIAGNOSING BORDER LINE PERSONALITIES AND NARCISSISTS CAN see right through these 'sub-par silly's,' and medicate them right out of this mental hell . . . where they are supposed to be housing 30 different aleins in their bodies. Sickos and Zealots can make you believe anything when they brain wash, which is scientific phenomena that works on anybody who ends up in evil hands for the proper amount of time... a very, very slippery slope that YOU BETTER STAY AWAY FROM!!!!

I will kill anyone I know who gives money to them. I sent out very nice cards announcing this to all my friends. Signed in blood. I would advocate shooting out the windows of their reading rooms if I could be sure no one would be hurt and it was legal.

And it will be legal, when I have enough hamsters to wipe these mental diseases off the face of the planet and replace them with an hour of hypnosis and frequent breaks for sex and weed, yo yo-ing and frisbee. BOW BEFORE THE LAW, OR SUFFER!!! SUFFER, I SAY!!!!!

By the way, Mad Donna ( the virgin mother? She's MORE LIKE THE 'HO MOTHER') wrote a childrens' book about how wealth wasn't everything, after spending her whole life whoring herself out to fill her pockets with money and the radio with her crappy music.

I hear her pussy is so stretched out that she carries her luggage in there, and the baby... which has a little oxygen mask and designer wet suits that make it look like a penguin, and other animals... the wet suits are all covered in nubs like Ho-Momma's favorite french tickler. His oxygen tank also has a valve to release knock out spray, which little brained Mad Donna uses all but maybe an hour a day, when she is the mood for kids.

Sometimes, if she is not in the mood for kids, she has them put in a coma for a few weeks. I guess the older they get, the more often she does this. She claims she is going to knock the girls out at eight (which is when she first became a slut), and then keep them down until they are ten years old and still virgins, which will be some sort of family record, or something...

Money sure does make available a lot of options that us poor, sane folk will never have... boo hoo, boo hoo.




By the way...
The above photo is from a tarot card... a picture of bullshit on bullshit, you could say. And, obviously, this is of course not my art..., I did not make a fucking tarot card.

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w. the rockstar president holds my bubbas hostage

Just so you know... The w. demands a twenty one gun salute and lots of flag waving after every successful bowl movement, a Bush tradition that has helped them to often achieve potty training. No word yet though on when W. will finally win his personal battle with 'bad potty.' Until then, they will continue the other Bush tradition that anyone who mentions Depends in their prescence, for any reason, will have their buts corked until they die. . . don't ask him if he farted, or in any way indicate that someone needs to be changed. I've seen him kill for this too often. Those huge but corks that they punish the peasents with are painful. I wouldn't want to wear one for longer than a couple hours...

HERE IS DA SCOOP:

It was like 6 am in the morning when the red phone rang, the one W. had installed when he determined he could mooch weed off of me. I pick up and he's already talking.

"YEA, AND, MAN, I JUST GOT A REPORT FROM THAT DAMNED DRUG ENFORCEMENT BURRO THAT YOU GOT WEED. Man, you said you would call me when you had some budidge?"

"Don't you ever buy weed? I mean, you're the president, so..."
"None of these fuckers smoke up here, man... and they wouldn't give me any if they did, man... My mom, the old gray tank, she'll cut off their balls. She cut up my first couple connects, now... hell, I can't find a damned banana peel. You got any of those?"
"Banana peels don't get you high."
"Snort enough coke with em, and sure they do."
"They let you have coke, but not pot? That's fucking crazy."
"Coke keeps me cocky, pissed at them fucking liberal maggot breaths... hey, maggot breaths. That's... what the hell was I talking about? No, what were talking about,, I mean?"
"Why do they let you use coke, which is like, a terrible drug? And then the little weed, which enhances rather..."
"Made em agree to it before I would run. I told dad, said, look pops, I gots to have the brewskis and the nose candy, but other than that.. I'll do whatever. Hell, sure, I can send thousands of kids to their deaths to get revenge for you, dad... At least I think that is the way it went. I get my breifs every morning in the form of little cartoons they draw. Only way I will read anything. That's in my little agreement too. They made me sign it with the blood of a dead hooker, which is how the skull and bones sign everything, even grocery lists... shit, quit talking about the skull and bones. I have nothing to say about them."
"Uh, okay."
"I'm glad I could clear that up for you, fine american."
"You forgot my name again?
"No, your... checking the phone records for something, not your name, no... Guy With Weed."
"Well, like I told you, I let you smoke some more of my weed, you got to let me lead a team of navy seals in to Bahrain, to take out Michael Jack-Off-Your-Son."
"You promise you will kill those damn lamas?"
"No, dog dammit, I will not... I keep forgotting you will forget everything we talk about. Tell your secret service guys that I get to kill the child fucking freak?"
"Yea, you heard him.... it's all on speaker phone, so I can color. What the hell are you talking about? Painting doors? Yea, yea, I am definantly for painting doors. What the hell? I mean, what the hell? We're discussing painting doors? Why the hell do you keep calling me? Hey, we're right outside your place."

I pulled the curtain aside and it was true, there he was, crawling out of a black limosine that seemed to literally be stuffed with slutty dressed whores of all shapes and sizes and enthnic back-o-ground.

I hate the man, but what can you do when someone will have your pets killed if you don't pick up the phone? He means this shit, has all kinds of people across the country getting thier asses kicked for dissing him in the past. Like he started with people who gave him the quote 'evil eye' in kindergarten. It's like, everyone in his class. He was known, like some idiot savant, in college for being able to remember everyones names. Who knew it was because he put them all on lists to get their asses kicked -- at the behest of his mother, of course.. the true power behind the Bush Dynasty (remember when she said the people in the lousiana disaster were better off since they were poor and had less to lose... ugh... pictures of lives long lost are worth more than their mansions. Rich folk get so sick, especially the dynastic ones.. the bushes go back to psuedo english royalty... in fact, we are more than likely related... as much as this sickens).

Two secret service guys burst in. One grabbed Buk and held a knife to the squirming cats throat, the other grabbed ruby and held a forty five to her head as she licked his hand...

W. always does this because he thinks I have a tendency to bogart, which I do not, and he swears a pet will die next time. He always forgets this, but his secret service guys don't. They love to kill small animals. I asked them about it once and they were all like, "Uh, that's for training."
"Why do you masterbate while your doing it, then?" I asked these two of them, all dressed in black fatigues and dark sunglasses and field hats with the floppy brim pulled down over their foreheads.
"In case we are called on to rape someone to death. Happened to my dad all the time in Nam."
"Yea," the quiter one added, "we do it because one day, we may have to protect... your children."
"I don't have any children."
"Did you kill em? I know how it is... They get to yelling and you pull a knife out of your boot and gut em, then cut the ears off and wear em around your neck and dance, just dance until you can't dance anymore."
"No! Goddamn, it...."


But that was another day... Today, I met the W. at the door and just gave him my weed. I can always call up Spike and get more. The agents then tried to leave with my pets, but I called em on it... with my fine little black Uzi aimed at their balls (a present from the W., meaning he needed weed so he took a gun off one of his bodyguards and gave it to me pretending it was a thoughtful gift.. and he will never pay that guy back, you can just bet). W. grabbed the weed without a word, went back to his limo. When he opened the door, I caught another glimpse of the whores, and a flat screen showing porn that was so disgusting I immediantly repressed it and now, in my memory, see only happy dancing bunnies on the screen...

ho

test

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killin' whores and lace slip covers for toasters

.

Some girl wrote to me and said reading my blog was like smelling someone elses farts.


No, I made that up... but it's true, in, like, other dimensions...


If everyone who came here gave me a fucking dime? I would have, like, enough money to buy a flat screen and a whore, or two (well, at least the whores could happen, should M. reverse her no prostitutes policy, which I think she will, because I will not let this go and sooner or later she will give in to me, or I will have to pretend like she did and then she forgot that she did and just go ahead and grab me some diseased quimly... wait, I hate fucking whores--they are criminal addicts, desperate people who wish they were somewhere else while you fuck -- how pathetic . . . and sadly enough, attractive after a dozen beers... luckily, when they offered me sex for a ride in my taxi, which probably happened maybe fifty times over the years, I always turned them down. . . . except once, because the woman was so insistent that she grabbed my cock and put it in her mouth before I could do anything to stop her, practically... she then proceeded to give me the worst head of my life... it was so bad . . . I will spare you the gross details... I pulled her off (a almost unheard of act by the male species, so you can imagine how bad her dry, dry mouth felt on Chuckles tender head). This embarrasses me to write, but if I don't have honesty, I am nothing but a facade on these pages... and I really hope to transcend that empty, flesh puppet using the carefully worded script described in your job description kind of being... you know? Hope you know. There is nothing worse than becoming just what society wants people to be, because the fucks in charge of a lot of the human genres of fashionable and edible and religous correct folk are often Psycho Killers -- driven sociopathic by the horrors they have to confront that become monsters eating thier brains until they can only feel self esteem and contempt.


I actually had a buddy who was addicted to whores; used to spend all his money on them. I got him to move away from his whore infested neighborhood and move in with me, when I lived in Roscoe Village, which was a mellow, graceful, and wonderfully livable neighborhood until quite recently when the young condo owners came in with their three cars and empty streets became full and starbucks appeared like magic and soon enough, the area that used to house Riverside Amusement park and was the home of tough carnies, was swallowed back into the generic sameness of the fashion magazine infected).



I have met a lot of prostutues. Cab driving just led me into the most interesting fucking situations; prostitutes proved to be the worst people I met; criminal to the point that they are always looking for a way to rip you off. I was not kidding when I wrote about that one who tried to kill me with a butcher knife--which tends to affect ones perceptions... Of course, to be fair, let me just mention that another woman comes to mind, one of those women who looks like an angel and fucking her is like having the finest champagne on the planet... not that one needs that... but she sure made hundreds of thousands of dollars as a high class hooker. She used to date an artist buddy. The whore saved up her money and went off to college... She was nice, though her ability to emphathize with other people is probably stunted all to hell...

Wait a minute, how the hell did I end up talking about whores again? This always happens... shit... I... I didn't write anything about killing whores did I ?? Did I mention naming the maggots swirling through the flesh holes in their faces and squeezing out around their eyes, pouring out her nose like living snot??? shit, did I put something in here about covering their dead faces with lace slip covers for toasters and drawing a little smily face on them so the fun can continue as long as I can stand the smell of rotting corpse (Note to self: you've downed some bongsiddy-bang today, so you have to be careful here... don't forget to take this evidence out before you publish... another Note To Self: wash the blood off your hands, it is getting the keys all sticky. . . and the cat... FOR DOGS SAKE, REMEMBER TO COME BACK AND ERASE ALL THIS STUFF!!!!... change that title about killing whores too)!!!!




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The Death Of Bob The Wino Knight

In one dimension, a hoboish drunk, late fifties and over-weight, sits stinky and silent on a bench in Loyola Park. No one knows that he is secretly watching everyone there, on the look out for any sort of trouble. That was his job now. He had lost everything except his need to drink... and of late, the cheap wine had started to make his brain resemble smooth vanilla pudding with chocolate chips and coconuts -- a disease that was going to help kill him in twelve days, when the first icey Northeasterner roars acrss the lake and freezes to death any wino who has the bad luck of passing out on a street corner all exposed to the evilish elements of the cold, cold wind chilled air that freezes their flesh and slows their heart down more and more, until they end up in a paupers grave . .. but that night, he was just drunk enough to feel like he could take on the world!!

He turned real quick, alerted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a young women with a Depaul University shirt walking a yapping small white dog... The dog started sniffing a tree and preparing to let loose some used up foods and liquids... He watched the woman closely. He had a feeling she was just going to leave the shit and he was pissed. Really pissed. Too pissed to calm down even after the women suddenly pulled a box of blue, scented bags out of her pocket and knelt down and picked up the steaming pile of poo. He glared at her as she passed and was pleased when she quickened her step. 'Have to keep an eye out for that one,' he thought, though he knew he would forget because he forgot everything at somepoint in the day, when the wine made his speach a moan that drove away anyone he tried to bum a smoke from or tell about some squirrel that he saw that day.

There had been no crime that day... Once a cop had told him this was the safest park in the city.

Only he, Bob The Drunk, knew that he was a knight, and entirely responsible for keeping people in line. The Kids he watched especially. And of course those damn dog walkers. If they tried to get away without cleaning up, he yelled at them, made a scene... usally they ran from him and he would just have to accept that he couldn't pass out in that spot until the stuff was dry enough.. He knew that they would think twice about leaving shit in his park after his rebuke, at least. He was also worried about trolls, though he had yet to see anything more than a few of their ghosts.

And indeed, there was no crime that night; or the next, or the next... until finally, Bob laid down the doorway of a closed dry cleaner and felt the wine pull him down into blessed black. Six hours and fourteen minutes and ten seconds later, he froze to death.

Bob was quite surprised to find himself reincarnated and already an eight year old girl . . . which is why she started drinking so young and became a lesbian and changed her name back to Bob. True story.







THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

dead people in my head

DEAD PEOPLE linger forever
lives are too short to forget
nothing has closure until your eyes
are sewn shut by a mortician

I want to be able to feel them
without this wall of pain between us

the horror of knowing they are just plain gone
shocking moments of realization come over and over
out of nowhere and everywhere

I need some ritualistic way to go beyond this emotional murk
a long, long arm to reach through the pain
burst out on the other side
where my memories of them are just fond
not surrounded by the taunting faces of their powdered and painted corpse

they are lost to me
hidden by this wall of pain
my living memories have been thrown into a dark room
the door has been bricked up
leaving their pale ghosts alone
gasping
whithering into the forgotten

i want my daddy
i want my brother
i want my friends
the list grows with the passing years
until a crowd of them are back there
behind that brick wall
clamoring about like rats

I hear them scratching on the walls
screams of pain as their nails tear off
as they try to dig through the brick with their bloody hands

I want them sit on the couch and talk or not
to just fill the space that they created in me
so empty now





THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

THANK YOU... SORT OF.

I hit fifty thousand and three visitors on my blog counter at my other site, http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com

that's from since I started keeping count, last summer. I am pleased that hundreds to thousands of you come in here every day. Thank you for sharing your psychosis with mine.

By the way, I'm on the verge of starving and you should send me money soon . . . or, perhaps, hamsters. . . actually, preferrably hamsters. I would have money if I didn't have to spend so much on Hamsters... if only M. would quit letting me get angry and sick the Ruby doo and Buk on the troops.... DAMN HER AND HER LAPSED BABY SITTING SKILLS!!! Not that I need a sitter... no, not all the time. Others won't agree with me, I know.


Wait, you could send me... well, someone mentioned Ninja Chimps? I'd take a couple those. Probably pawn them for a few bucks. Or maybe just chain them up in a storage unit somewhere, and then pimp them out over the internet. At least until they starved. I have a strict policy against feeding chimps.

Anyways, thank you for coming in here and reading me for free. I know that is the only way I could ever get a readership, I suppose, but still... it irks me, dammit!!! But, I came in here to thank you readers and show my unfailing humility, as always... still, you know, why did I go to school all those years if I was just going to then write in a damn blog and ignore all the more traditional forms of text AND THEN WIND UP POORER THAN some used up and battered ex-con sparrow... a lice itchy feathered friend on no one that has just been hit by a frisbee that smashed its wing bones into tiny painful shards leaving it helpless on the sidewalk as it looks up at a family of ravenous, frothy mouthed black rats with small, though very loud, chainsaws, whose eyes have a look of bizarre, painful sexual wantings that its buttocks quiver in fear....


FIGHT THE MOWER!!!


THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

finger foods... yumma, yumma, yumma doo!!

State Street was madness, the crowds thick and musty in the third day of mushy falling snow; moving down the sidewalk was a chore, and the stores even worse. There were only a few days left before christ mass and everyone in the greater chicago area seemed to be shopping downtown under the bright glow of red and green lights. The cold air was filled with a sense of crazy frenzy.

That was the year when Cannabalism was the big fad. Those human fingers were the best!! I get hungry as a pup without a tit remembering those red and green boxes with the break dancing elves and that hippy-esque raindeer. The commercial advertisements were especially effective that year, I guess, when they broke all our taboos about eating each other. I know I got all caught up in that ad campaign where they had a long haired, stoned looking Rudolph with Snoop Dogs voice, and all those gay, swishy elves.

Everyone wanted those specially packaged holidy edition finger snacks; people were breaking out into fights when Marshall Fields announced that they would soon be out of the delicious nibble. That was the year when all the winos sold their fingers for drinking change and had to hold their styrofoam begging cups in their teeth (after the states outlawed wino fingers, they started importing the brown ones, of course, and while a lot of people think they are less flavorful, i can't taste any difference). Writing about this little taste bud tickler makes me really, really, really hungry for one of those pinkies, the ones coated in butter and cinamon and topped with white frosting.

The Gods Of Munchy say: "I don't care what all those labor activists say about south americans being made slaves so they can have their non essential organs transplanted into paying customers, I got a weedy need to gnaw on ten of those pinkies and no reason is going to get between me and those fat filled vein cloggers."











THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

Killing Again....

I was out letting Ruby kill squirrels today. We are up to fifty three and a half (one was pretty badly wounded, but managed to scramble up a tree with just two and a half legs). For the sake of all that you consider Holy or funny, do not tell M. about this. She already suspects something is up because of the blood she keeps finding on Ruby's snout. I have her convinced that ruby has a secret stash of Strawberry Jelly; which I make all the more believable by hiding some jam that I put on her lips occasionally, when the stench of squirrel entrails and all the other disgusting shit she swallows down with glee becomes a bit much. I mean, Husky's have no breath, so I have to be pretty careful about this.

I am of course trying to film all of our kills. In the footage, I do a lot of close ups so the squirrels look huge and do voice overs like for a badly dubbed Godzilla import from b-movie japan, "Oh.... no.... professor, they giant squirrels lose now. Run must we from mighty hairy one with teeth of doom cheese.'

When she rips up the squirrels, their intestines remind me of Harpo Marx's hairdo. Don't try to make people laugh by wearing them as a wig though, because society just ain't ready for those kind of sophisticated laughs, or so my experiments down by the lake on other dog walkers and alarmed passers by seem to indicate.

I am usually against killing animals, but since it makes the pup so happy and watching the videos makes me laugh.... well, it's Like John Lennon said, 'Whatever gets you through the night.' A lot of people don't know he was referring to Squirrel Killing with these lyrics, but you know me, I miss nothing....



Ruby is still ignoring my orders to kill humans, though I think this squirrel slaughter has been a step in the right directions. I'm thinking, once I get her ready to kill, that I am going to go to Bahrain and take out Massah Jack-OFF=Your Son. Or maybe I'll just go after the weak and sick around here? There a couple retirement centers that would make this oh so easy.... I have notes.

Hard to tell what I'll do? The parole officers and doctors are better at predicting that stuff than me, so I leave it to them.






THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

DEAD PEOPLE IN MY HEAD

DEAD PEOPLE linger forever
lives are too short to forget
nothing has closure until your eyes
are sewn shut by a mortician

I want to be able to feel them
without this wall of pain between us

the horror of knowing they are just plain gone
shocking moments of realization come over and over
out of nowhere and everywhere

I need some ritualistic way to go beyond this emotional murk
a long, long arm to reach through the pain
burst out on the other side
where my memories of them are just fond
not surrounded by the taunting faces of their powdered and painted corpse

they are lost to me
hidden by this wall of pain
my living memories have been thrown into a dark room
the door has been bricked up
leaving their pale ghosts alone
gasping
whithering into the forgotten

i want my daddy
i want my brother
i want my friends
the list grows with the passing years
until a crowd of them are back there
behind that brick wall
clamoring about like rats

I hear them scratching on the walls
screams of pain as their nails tear off
as they try to dig through the brick with their bloody hands

I want them sit on the couch and talk or not
to just fill the space that they created in me
so empty now


THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

The Death Of Bob The Wino Knight

In one dimension, a hoboish drunk, late fifties and over-weight, sits stinky and silent on a bench in Loyola Park. No one knows that he is secretly watching everyone there, on the look out for any sort of trouble. That was his job now. He had lost everything except his need to drink... and of late, the cheap wine had started to make his brain resemble smooth vanilla pudding with chocolate chips and coconuts -- a disease that was going to help kill him in twelve days, when the first icey Northeasterner roars acrss the lake and freezes to death any wino who has the bad luck of passing out on a street corner all exposed to the evilish elements of the cold, cold wind chilled air that freezes their flesh and slows their heart down more and more, until they end up in a paupers grave . .. but that night, he was just drunk enough to feel like he could take on the world!!

He turned real quick, alerted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a young women with a Depaul University shirt walking a yapping small white dog... The dog started sniffing a tree and preparing to let loose some used up foods and liquids... He watched the woman closely. He had a feeling she was just going to leave the shit and he was pissed. Really pissed. Too pissed to calm down even after the women suddenly pulled a box of blue, scented bags out of her pocket and knelt down and picked up the steaming pile of poo. He glared at her as she passed and was pleased when she quickened her step. 'Have to keep an eye out for that one,' he thought, though he knew he would forget because he forgot everything at somepoint in the day, when the wine made his speach a moan that drove away anyone he tried to bum a smoke from or tell about some squirrel that he saw that day.

There had been no crime that day... Once a cop had told him this was the safest park in the city.

Only he, Bob The Drunk, knew that he was a knight, and entirely responsible for keeping people in line. The Kids he watched especially. And of course those damn dog walkers. If they tried to get away without cleaning up, he yelled at them, made a scene... usally they ran from him and he would just have to accept that he couldn't pass out in that spot until the stuff was dry enough.. He knew that they would think twice about leaving shit in his park after his rebuke, at least. He was also worried about trolls, though he had yet to see anything more than a few of their ghosts.

And indeed, there was no crime that night; or the next, or the next... until finally, Bob laid down the doorway of a closed dry cleaner and felt the wine pull him down into blessed black. Six hours and fourteen minutes and ten seconds later, he froze to death.

Bob was quite surprised to find himself reincarnated and already an eight year old girl . . . which is why she started drinking so young and became a lesbian and changed her name back to Bob. True story.


THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

LAUGHING AT YOU

the taunt of the nerves
screaming 'FUCK YOU' at me
in screechin' voices of grinding veterbrae
a garage band banging away at the blessed silence
psychos with knives all up and down my spine

illness
a mental landscape filled with dangling nooses
you learn to laugh
at all the oportunites to die
missed
for this one grand and pathetic moment


learn to laugh until you sit alone in your room laughing all day

let the plants die
shit yourself
starve the animals
kill the whole the fucking planet

laugh at the darker shadows
flitting across the newscasters painted faces




just
keep laughing



because
that's
what
it's
all
about

proof inbreeding is still rampant in Tennessee

Rarely in recorded time have so many been so stupid for so long...

This guy claims that a man who was pretending to be a cop forced him, over the phone, to strip search one of his 20 year old workers and then.... have her blow him.

UNBELIEVABLY... AND THIS IS TRUE IN A WAY THAT IS MUCH TRUER THAN WHEN I USUALLY SAY TRUE... A TRUER TRUE TRUE, IF YOU WILL... This has evidently happened at various McDonalds down around what is usually considered the brother-sister fucking belt of America, Tn, Ky, where the mountains are cold and lonely, the next family often too far away to walk. McDonalds, rightly so, claims that someone should have realized this was a prank call when the supposed cop who was blaming the female employee with stealing a purse, ordered her to blow the manager. Only an alert Janitor finally went, "What the hell?" Of course the manager, a 41 year old guy who had practically zero chance of ever scoring with one of his hot young employees, was probably all happy when he realized the girl was going to go along with the request.

Thank god they got that pervert for rape, sort of... they gave him some plea where he admits no guilt, but does not contest the fact that the evidence would prove him guilty.

Again, the in breeding is even popular in legal circles, where brothers and sisters often marry to keep all the family pigs together....
Not that this diminishes the sight of those mountains down there one speck.


So, you know, next time you feel like pulling a prank on really, really stupid people, just get the number of some mcdonalds down there and pretend to be a cop who believes someone from the mcdonalds is making obscene phone calls, and needs the women on duty to recite a particular script, so your 'wtiness' can identify the alleged 'perverted phone caller' on their shift. Just insert your favorite perversion into the script you make the chick a dees recite and you could potentially cut down on your phone sex bills by thousands of dollars a month... and let me tell you, that frees up a lot of cash for orderin porn over cable...again, don't tell M. this is me, because when she notices the upswing on the charges, I am going to claim that the cat, Buk, has become addicted to internet porn.

By the way, I am kidding about acting like a cop.. this is not funny. Act like you are a cop and you go to jail... as you should. The perv.'s and criminals are always robbing people and worse after gaining their trust by pretending to be cops. Anyone whose name was so used should be pissed. The law will slap you down!!!

Of course, it does no good in a preventive sort of way for me to write this, since only inbreds don't find most of what I say obvious and interesting only in a kind of sick way that you don't want anyone else to know about... and no inbred would have read all the words it takes to get this far down teh page.. (to be kinder for some fucking reason, let me add that in breeding usually takes a couple generations to provoke serious quirks... and this is my stand until a certain cousin of mine loses her looks--she avoids me now, but my fantasy life tells me she will one day thrill me breifly at a family reunion, like in that penthouse forum letter-- which is one of the true ones).


Yea, inbreds are not exactly flocking to this sight. Irony, sarcasm, using metaphors, semi-colons, commas...

They run from such things....

grab the nearest remote and sink down into a sports trance, reducing the world to a field of big sweaty men banging into each other, chasing each other around, dancing, patting each others asses. All that fag stuff the homophobe jocks and adolescent boys are into. I mean, the whole colaseum thing for me started going downhill when they stopped having christians fight lions and leopards and bears and ostriches. Probably hamsters, too; though the evidence is scant, I am putting an article together about this for that on line encyclopedia for boofs, Whatapeeheadia--and then it will be true forever).

Below is a real article about this felonious lap licking.

Should you read all the way down through this article without feeling yourself actually growing more and more misanthropic, immiediantly email me the phone number of your dealer!!! For confidential research purposes only!!!


Andrew Wolfson
awolfson@courier-journal.com
The Courier-Journal

A Bullitt County man who claimed he was duped into sexually humiliating a teenage McDonald's worker last year by a man impersonating a police officer pleaded guilty yesterday to a felony charge of unlawful imprisonment.



In a plea bargain approved by his victim, Walter Nix Jr., 43, will get probation after agreeing to a one-year term for the felony and for sexual misconduct, a misdemeanor. He originally was charged with sodomy and assault, for which he could have been sentenced to 20 years in prison.
According to police and court records, Nix said he thought he was following an officer's orders when he directed Ogborn, who was detained four hours in the restaurant's office, to do exercises in the nude and perform oral sex on him. He also slapped her several times on her buttocks, at the direction of the caller, the records show.



The incident was the focus of a Courier-Journal story Sunday that noted that the strip-search was among at least 70 performed at fast-food restaurants and other businesses from 1995 through 2004 at the direction of a caller who claimed he was investigating crimes. Ogborn agreed to be identified by name in the newspaper.



A private prison guard, David N. Stewart, of Fountain, Fla., was charged in July 2004 with impersonating a police officer and soliciting sodomy in the Mount Washington case. He has pleaded not guilty, and his trial is set for Dec. 13. Summers is charged with unlawful imprisonment, a misdemeanor, and her trial is scheduled for Dec. 7. She also has pleaded not guilty.
Bullitt County Commonwealth's Attorney Mike Mann said in an interview yesterday that he agreed to probation for Nix because he has no prior record and because it would have difficult to persuade all 12 members of a jury to reject Nix's defense -- that he was duped by someone he thought was a law-enforcement officer.



"It would have been hard not to have one juror say, 'I might have gotten that call and done the same thing,' " Mann said.

(JOHNNY PAIN INTERRUPTING HERE..
CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS JUROR??? AND ALL TWELVE OF THE THOSE BUMPKINS WENT ALONG WITH HIM!!!! SOMEONE OUT THERE THOUGHT I WAS KIDDING ABOUT THE BROTHER-SISTER FUCKING BELT DOWN THERE IN DANIAL BOONE COUNTRY bet they feel silly now!!!))).





Still, he said he found it disturbing that anyone would believe that "sodomy is part of a lawful criminal investigation. There had to be a point where he realized that this wasn't right," Mann said of Nix.



Nix didn't explain his plea in the courtroom and left without talking to reporters. His lawyer, Kathleen Schmidt, said he was too nervous for an interview.



Ogborn's co-counsel, William C. Boone Jr., said his client approved the deal because "she wants somebody to say they are sorry and for somebody to say she did nothing wrong," both of which he said Nix has promised to say at sentencing.

"She is tired of McDonald's blaming her for what happened," Boone said.

The company also has said that agents outside its control -- Stewart and Nix -- were at fault.

The company's Louisville lawyer, W.R. "Pat" Patterson Jr., referred questions to spokeswoman Tara McClarin, who in a prepared statement said, "McDonald's regrets these unfortunate incidents and is pleased to know that those who have been criminally charged are being brought to justice."
Nix entered an Alford plea, maintaining his innocence while acknowledging there is enough evidence to convict him.
As part of the plea agreement, Mann agreed to drop an assault charge against Nix and to reduce the sodomy count to sexual misconduct, a misdemeanor punishable by up to 12 months in prison. He also raised the unlawful imprisonment charge to a felony, which carries a sentence of one to five years. Ogborn, a high school senior who had just turned 18 at the time of the incident, hadn't received a single admonition in her four months at the McDonald's when the man who called himself "Officer Scott" called and said an employee had been accused of stealing a purse. Summers said later that she picked out Ogborn because the caller's description fit her "to the T." Following the caller's instructions, Summers took Ogborn into the office and had her remove one item of clothing at a time until she was naked.

Although McDonald's said Ogborn could have left at any time, Summers had taken away her clothes, and she was able to only partially cover herself with an apron. The incident continued until a maintenance man who worked at the store questioned it and the caller hung up.

Nix and Summers were among at least 13 people across the United States charged with crimes for executing searches for the caller. Seven have been convicted of various crimes. Stewart so far has only been charged in the Bullitt County incident.

Celebrity Animals Who Have Slept Their Way To Fame

I guess I should come out with an opinion on this 'hot' topic that is sweeping across the blogs... Well, we all know Spuds Machenzie owed everything to certain oral technique which he first perfected on himself and then used to take Hollywood by storm... He had free beer!!!! For life!!! How many fucking dogs achieve that??? None. So, I don't blame him . . .

He sure could lick lap. I'm sure everyone has by now seen the tapes on the net of him lap loving Paul Schaffer while he was on the Letterman Show... I guess he had been up smoking crack and licking himself for like a week before the show, and just kind of staggered over to the band and his brain blew out and he jumped on the stunned though obviously pleased Mr. Shaffer.

Spuds never did come down they say, just sits in that hospital all doped up on thorazine and very, very slowly licks his ass over and over. . . I hear that he gets day passes out to visit the Playboy Mansion and his Scientology Auditing, but I guess he still just sits there drooling on his own privates no matter where he is.. Sad case. Like those Corey's who used to act in stoner movies like pot heads though they were really like herion addicts? They do the same thing, but on the streets. Spuds at least knew to save his money.

So, after thinking about Spuds a bit, and seeing that amazing, amazing oral artistery he once had and his now slow, ineffective manner of licking his soft bone... well, I just feel sorry for him, I guess. I mean who here can say what they would do if they could lick themselves?

The classic tale of animal whoring always was and of course always will be -- Flipper.

I don't know if I can add anything to the whole 'blow hole' scene that emerged out in Hollywood at that time... I mean, that horny sea stud, I have a poster of him pumping Tryone Powers in the ass, while James Dean hip whacks his blow-hole and Shirly McClain lickis a pickle sticking out of his ass... Everyone bought that one... but, besides the well known stuff... I happen to have heard he was the one who first gave Drew Barrymore Blow...

They say she crawled faster than any of the other infants at the commercial tryouts. Yea, Flipper was the one who convinced Drew's Mom to drug the tot and let Roman Polanksi babysit and all this other shit that lead to her unique and quirky brillance. The Flip took her mom out, and just for a goof--for an anecdote to tell to his jaded celebrity buddies, he got her stoned on acid and weed and hypnotized her into giving her kid speed and letting her hang out with micheal jackson and that damn chimp that he has butt fucking him 24 hours a day (a habit he picked up from Elizabeth Talyor, who actually eats the monkeys through out the day and is always calling in for more).

When Flipper died, everyone said he od'd, but no...
that's just less embarrassing than the truth, which is what his official biographers have been saying forever. . . . I happen to know he died from rectal bleeding, after getting fisted by a bull elephant that he kept all methed up and chained by his pool.


Oh, well... this topic saddens me so. I wish animals could get parts without having to sleep their way through production office after production office, but that is just the way things are done. I mean, everytime I see a pup on some commercial, I know that it isn't an innocent, oh no... not after being on the hundreds of couches it takes to make it in that business. Poor little lap lickers. Remember them around the holidays, and for those few blessed days, try not to throw shoes at them when they start licking themselves... for the animals, dammit!!!

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THE MERRY MAYPOLE

Okay, so... Let's say that religion is a disease that infects people and makes them act in aberrant manners, and kills millions.

Which leads me to often joke about ways to destroy the religions, in ways that I hope will infect some people who will one day go on to be influential... I have given up on thinking I will ever be, but maybe some kid who reads me will write a great American atheistic constitution for the new personality/technobeing of the future? There is no way to tell, so I am assuming this is true... And will be putting it on my Resume.'


With all this talk about killing off christ, it is important to remember the revenge aspect of all this Jabber. My snide sneer is footnoted by Nietzsche, who said we execute prisoners because of a deep rooted need to take revenge. My cab driver mentor, Mike Paite -- alias Mike Masters, told me that if someone 'stung me', then I should always sting back -- to maintain good mental health. I was an assholes worst nightmare -- a crazy, revenge seeker who knew they had been pissing on service people all their lives, but would soon learn to think twice about that social sin... I have so many stories of the sting that they might be a book one day, certainly a short story? Tales of the Sting.. Maybe I will base it on this story I'm writing about?

So, here is an entry about Puritans killing some free spirits.


This here old, old story is by the master, Nathaniel Hawthorne. His grandfather was one of the preachers who instigated witch hunts in early, puritan america.

Nat. saw through the superstition, was a modern man in his time, knew Henry James, Herman Melville, and other writers who are called, in the lexicon of English Majors and Exams, THE AMERICAN TRANSCENDENTALISTS. They lived in a time when the idea that there was simply nothing but rotting flesh left of us after we died was too intense for them... But, they did reject conventional religion, which was almost impossible for the generations that came before them.

This led them to seek other ways to fill their hunger for answers to the big questions. They tried to talk to the dead, etc... In the end, they believed only that man could 'transcend' his daily life and see some kind of truth behind the curtain of the day to day that we see.
What that truth was, they all had different ideas.

I am bringing him up because of the Merry Maypole, a story that I have been threatening to rewrite since college. The story is about a bunch of hedonists who give up the every day life to have drunken orgies and play on their Maypole (which is a pole with a lot ropish things coming off, enough that all the players hold one as they walk or skip or dance around in circles... which only a very drunken person would love as much as they do).
The hedonists are hated by the religious puritans in a nearby village. And when one of their children decides to chuck the very, very conformist and superstitious lifestyle of her parents and join her lover in the drinking games of the Maypole crowd... the christos lose it!!! Kill them all, including the 'infected' daughter.

nowadays, people walking around a Maypole and drinking is way too tame for us. They would hardly be sentenced to death for this (except in the backward, ass-breath cultures). Considering the kind of trouble drunks get in, maybe we should start having these Maypoles all over the city? We could get them all started with a good advertising campaign run by spuds Mackenzie and other famous advocates of liver damage and drunk driving and silly fucks with people we don't know...

People often accuse me of being an asshole because I slam religion. Well, I have a lot of anger at religions exactly because they hurt me so bad... they gave me this big lie that I believed to the point that I only fucking based my life on the damned teachings. Then I learned they were all lying and that was not fun.... Duh.

People do hate me for this, and I used to get lots of letters from them, until they realized how easily I could slam them into next week with my witty ways.... I mean, I have no life other than sitting here all day thinking up mean shit to say, and they have to work and all that shit, so they are obviously at a disadvantage. I am always shocked by how alone I feel out here, how unexpected my voice is to some people.. I am not exactly parroting anything that unknown (except to people too young or ignorant to be at my level of educational factoid, time accumulated knowledge). One of my Jobs, as I see it, is to make sure this little voice of reason still speaks somewhere, even if I am way, way on the margins of the literary community. ... and never amount to much more than a trail of small clouds of illegal smoke.

Today a comment from a reader told me that she felt like she was the only one who was clear eyed enough to consider religion the disease. .... or more that she often feels that way, I guess.

It's not easy being a closet atheist. That is exactly where I was once, when I was a teenager. I felt like a cursed freak because the books I had read showed me how to see through the illusions so easily accepted by uncritical minds. If not for reading other people who felt the same as me, like Kurt Vonnegut, Frank Herbert, Jerzy Kosinski, Gabrial Garcia Marquez and a lot of others.... I might have given in to the ennui of feeling all weirdo and alone and damaged and simply ceased to exist.

we are left adrift in this ocean of stupidity
scramble to stay afloat
to get a gasp of brown air


we gorge ourselves
go to work
fuck
repeat what we hear like parrots
have our childish pastimes

die after a life exploited by grafting rulers
politicos
preachers
priests
the myriad of parasites on the body politic.


when you doubt the witch doctors
you're killed or ostracized
depends on how primitive your country


you can't see no TV shows advancing athiesm
can't hear no politicians admitting the braver stance
can't find no voice
for trillons of unspoken doubts
for the beliefs of the best of us


evolved to want a god
by the killers who have always gone after the free thinkers
and stabbed them through the brain with a sharpened cross
until the gene for the free minded was almost destroyed
almost....

paralyzed by our fears of being called crazy by the crazy's
cowards who won't scream at the hypocrites
don't see the disease festering in minds all around us
minds we love and would kill for
we leave diseased, lessened
frozen in the words of ancient, ignorant tribes
who were just trying to describe the world
without the benefit of the empiricists... scientists we trust with our health
our living space
our cars
our psychological beleifs
our military
ourselves

almost everything
almost . . .
except throwing out the leeching liars
living in the mosques, temples, rectories, etcetera.

crazy ways of ours!!!!
craaaaaazzzzyyyyyy!!!!!






***** The ABOVE POEM WAS Mused up By THE BOOK, THE CASE AGAINST RELIGION... as well as my usual muse, b.




THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

there are soldiers in my TV

There are soldiers in my TV!
running up the side of a mountain
breaking down doors
driving tanks
talking
taking orders
sending emails
playing video games
talking to their parents and wives


There are soldiers in my TV!
walking beside endless coffins
dressed in their finest uniforms
firing salutes
to try to make ourselves believe there is sense'
that lives go on
after the battle has torn them in two

There are soldiers in my TV!
crazy eighteen year olds
hopped up on testorone
riding the wave of their sexual peak

sublimating those lost fucks into energy
to keep moving through the desert
to keep fighting the forever war
to once more face a city filled with snipers and bombs



There are soldiers in my TV!
they lay wounded in tents
dying in hospitals
dead on the nightly news
a million and some prayers
for peace
remain unanswered
as if god himself
turned way
from our endless slaughter


There are soldiers in my TV!
shot and fallen
bloody stains on their chests
the flesh of their faces ripped away
blown up by road side bombs
layed by religious freaks
hopped up on heaven



There are soldiers in my TV!
crashed and dragged through dusty streets
becoming a macabe parade
as the cheering sunni's dance and cheer for death


There are soldiers in my TV!
in movies with beautiful people
playing out intricate plots
pasted over anti war messages
that are drowned out
by the seductive roar
of machine guns



There are soldiers in my TV!
I ache to hear we have won
that no more lives
will be sacrificed to the war
against the enemies of our culture
the ignorant fundamentalists would strip of us of our freedom
to listen to rock n roll
to love who we would

they would drag our women back into darker times
force their lies on all who would live
under the sinning sons of of a darker allah


There are soldiers in my TV!
I want to bring them home
to a peaceful world
where their blood isn't needed
the same old eutopia I have wanted
since I first learned to cry


There are soldiers in my TV!
when I change the channel
the world is only as big as the part that I see
as quiet as my sleepy neighborhood


























Along the Tigris River



















THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

HUSBAND AND WIFE SUICIDE BOMBERS???

I wish I could strangle these two with my bare hands. They are deluded cowards. Dying is easy, living is hard. What really strikes me as odd about a hubby and a wifey suicide bombers is the whole 72 virgins thing. I mean, these fuck heads think that men will get all these virgins to mess with for eternity? But, he has a wife... I know that M. would not let me have one virgin, let alone 72... I mean, the women do not get 72 men in their silly, oh so deadly myth.

I guess this just shows you again the irrationality of the mystics. By the way, I use the word mystic to mean anyone who takes a leap of faith. Anyone who is religous is a mystic. All are delusions, and my despising of these head fucks is equal to all religions.

Another funny thing about this is that E.O. Wilson, one of the most influential thinkers of our time and the father of the discipline I believe sheds more light on humanity than any other -- sociobiology, believed that we have a gene that makes us feel good about sacrificing ourselves for others. Some mechanism that over rides the basic, primal urge to survive. E.O. Wilson was writing about soldiers who jump on gernades to save their fellow warriors. Alturistic? I think that is the word he used.

On this veteren's day, I want to thank my father, John Kenneth Ridgway, for volunteering for the war, doing his duty, and coming home a kind and generous man who was liked by all. He was such a wonderful man. . . and I want to thank anyone else who is or out or going to be in the armed forces. I wish there was no need for this kind of sacrifice (and don't kid yourself with your anti-war rhetoric,
the very people you would stop from doing their job protect your ass from the worst evils you can imagine).. under the Taliban, they would kill me, stone your momma for wearing a dress, kill you for that peice of ass you nibbled behind your spouses back... not to mention, there would be no truth on the radio and televisions, and we would, be soon enough, in just a few generations, turned into the same wet brained ignoramouses they are.... remember how the greeks made those great strides into the world of free men having a voice in the affairs of government? Remember how those concepts were lost to humanity for awhile? Our culture will go that way, too... and without our armed forces, instead of growing into a more sane culture, we will step back into the stone age.

I hate like hell that I am on the same side as Bush in this... sorry, mom...

oh, go have a day where you blow every veteren you meet, saving the sperm in your distended cheek, like a squirrel gathering nuts, then spit all that jizz into the face of the next war protestor you see... or just sit back and look around at your life and realize how much of it is only possible with the blood of many a good man and women...


for my father THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

THERE ARE SOLDIERS IN MY TV!

There are soldiers in my TV!
running up the side of a mountain
breaking down doors
driving tanks
talking
taking orders
sending emails
playing video games
talking to their parents and wives


There are soldiers in my TV!
walking beside endless coffins
dressed in their finest uniforms
firing salutes
to try to make ourselves believe there is sense'
that lives go on
after the battle has torn them in two

There are soldiers in my TV!
crazy eighteen year olds
hopped up on testorone
riding the wave of their sexual peak

sublimating those lost fucks into energy
to keep moving through the desert
to keep fighting the forever war
to once more face a city filled with snipers and bombs



There are soldiers in my TV!
they lay wounded in tents
dying in hospitals
dead on the nightly news
a million and some prayers
for peace
remain unanswered
as if god himself
turned way
from our endless slaughter


There are soldiers in my TV!
shot and fallen
bloody stains on their chests
the flesh of their faces ripped away
blown up by road side bombs
layed by religious freaks
hopped up on heaven



There are soldiers in my TV!
crashed and dragged through dusty streets
becoming a macabe parade
as the cheering sunni's dance and cheer for death


There are soldiers in my TV!
in movies with beautiful people
playing out intricate plots
pasted over anti war messages
that are drowned out
by the seductive roar
of machine guns



There are soldiers in my TV!
I ache to hear we have won
that no more lives
will be sacrificed to the war
against the enemies of our culture
the ignorant fundamentalists would strip of us of our freedom
to listen to rock n roll
to love who we would

they would drag our women back into darker times
force their lies on all who would live
under the sinning sons of of a darker allah


There are soldiers in my TV!
I want to bring them home
to a peaceful world
where their blood isn't needed
the same old eutopia I have wanted
since I first learned to cry


There are soldiers in my TV!
when I change the channel
the world is only as big as the part that I see
as quiet as my sleepy neighborhood


























Along the Tigris River

cock fighting

Men should stop using their cocks in this manner. From what this article says, they strap razors on their cocks, then use them to fight in little rings. They even bet on this shit.

I was even more surprised to see that cock fighting is illegal in all but two states? I mean, if two guys want to cock fight, who am I to judge? Well, a reactionary asshole, that's who...


I mean, I can see a couple gay consenting adults slapping penises as part of foreplay, but PLLLLEEEAAASE, you fools, stop with the razors already -- you could endanger your cocks with this activity!!

I mean, I am sure a lot of my readers are way into this... you probably have little outfits you dress it up in (barbi seems about the right size) but, hey, come on, admit it, I know that most of the men who read this rag of a blog already have a bit of size problem without having an inch or two loped off... not me though... no, no, not me... really...

I had no idea this problem was so well ensconsced in the american landscape. This article says that there are underground circuits where guys fight with their cocks in every state of the union. South Americans tend to be the most involved, since I guess they fight with their cocks all the time down there. This figures, because so many of them come from macho cultures where the only way they can accept themselves having sex with other guys is to pretend they are just 'fighting.' Closet cases are so sad. Scream your name!!!!

Man, I would have to drink a hell of a lot of tequila before I would even have the guts to strap a razor on my cock, let alone actually endanger the little boy by using him in a fight... not that this sounds that erotic to me. Maybe squash wars... oh, in black fishnet... anyways, let me just say these cock fighters are perverts.


Next thing you know, there will be ass fighting, where guys stick swords up their rectums and then battle it out... I suppose they would have to use little mirrors to look behind them? You know, I am sure this is already happening as a matter of fact... because anything sexual has been tried by some drunken ape.

You humans, you suck so bad.... all of us marsupials feel that way.


I have to admit that I just kind of scanned this one, because of the mental images the article evoked of maimed, bleeding cocks made my genitals ache.


I did write something of a comment after this article, should you care for another lame joke or two...



Supporters: Cockfight Bill Could Stem Flu
By FREDERIC J. FROMMER, Associated Press Writer
Sunday, November 6, 2005
(11-06) 09:15 PST WASHINGTON, (AP) --


A cockfighting bill aimed at stemming the spread of bird flu to the U.S. has stalled despite support from the Bush administration and the poultry industry. The bill targets trade from Southeast Asia, where cockfighting is suspected of spreading bird flu from chickens to humans. The measure would increase penalties for transporting fighting birds across state lines and from other countries. But the chairman of the House Judiciary Committee has not brought the bill, which has passed the Senate, to a vote. Cockfighting is banned in every state except Louisiana and New Mexico."That's a bit of a stretch to say that the animal fighting bill should be an important part of any avian flu efforts," said Jeff Lungren, spokesman for Judiciary
Committee Chairman James Sensenbrenner, R-Wis.
Issues such as the Patriot Act and immigration have kept the committee busy, Lungren said, who played down the idea that the bill would do much to keep bird flu from reaching the U.S. Yet Agriculture Department officials have made just that case.Last year, then-Agriculture Secretary Ann M. Veneman said the bill would enhance the department's ability to protect U.S. poultry against avian flu and other diseases. Her successor, Mike Johanns, expressed support for the bill during his confirmation hearings. He told Sen. Rick Santorum, R-Pa., that it would help deter cockfighting, which "could play a role in the introduction and spread of exotic poultry diseases." Johanns also said the bill made sense from an "animal welfare standpoint." President Bush has made the fight against bird flu a priority, asking Congress for $7.1 billion to help the country prepare for a possible pandemic.












Cockfighting pits two roosters sporting steel blades on their legs. During a typical tournament, one-third to one-half of the birds die; many endure broken wings, punctured lungs and gouged eyes.Cockfighting is popular in parts of the South, where spectators often gamble on the outcome. In states where the sport is illegal, it's conducted underground. Last year in Thailand, an 18-year-old man who raised fighting cocks died from avian flu. According to health authorities, he would suck mucus and blood from his injured roosters' beaks, a practice not uncommon in that part of the world. Also, the fights themselves can spread disease because the birds slash each other in the pit. A recent report by the New England Journal of Medicine found that most bird flu victims in Southeast Asia were people who had direct contact with birds, including people who handled and groomed fighting cocks. It is already illegal to ship fighting birds to the United States and across state lines, a misdemeanor punishable by up to a year in jail. The proposed legislation would make the violation a felony, with jail time of up to two years.











"We know that if we get to a vote on the floor, it will pass," Green said. The bill has 184 other sponsors. The Judiciary Committee passed the bill in the last Congress, with Sensenbrenner's backing, but the legislation never made it through the House. Last year, U.S. cockfighters formed Citizens for Preserving Historic Animal Use, which spent $60,000 lobbying against the legislation from mid-2004 through mid-2005, federal records show. Repeated messages left with Larry Meyers of the Washington lobbying firm Meyers & Associates, who was listed as the lobbyist on those reports, were not returned.


Cockfighters also established a political action committee, Citizens for the Humane and Ethical Treatment of Animals, or CHETA, which gave $1,000 each to then-Majority Leader Tom DeLay, R-Texas, Rep. Steve King, R-Iowa, and Rep. Pete Sessions, R-Texas. (NOTE THE USE OF DOUBLE SPEAK, OR ORWELLIANISM, IF YOU WILL).King has been one of the most outspoken opponents of the animal fighting bill on the Judiciary Committee. In an e-mail interview King said that 3 million "human illegal aliens pour across our southern border every year. We can't control our borders. What are we doing trying to regulate chicken travel?" (OKAY, SOMEONE NEEDS TO TELL THIS GUY THAT CHICKENS ARE NOT AS SMART AS HUMANS, AND DO NOT WADE THROUGH THE RIO GRANDE TO WORK AS LOW TO NO WAGE LABOR...KAY?).













The National Chicken Council, which represents chicken producer-processors, has urged Congress to pass the legislation.

(MY ENEMIES ENEMY IS MY FRIEND... sad little chickens all in pens with their beaks cut off, producing embryos for their masters... ).

"Because cockfighting is unlawful in all but two states, the traffic is underground," council spokesman Richard Lobb said. "It's potentially a means by which animal disease can be spread."









-----------uhhh, back to me wisecracking through the foam in the my mouth....


To drop my boof joke about cockfighting.... and be honest here for a second,... I guess this could be called the revenge of the cock, this whole asian flu thing? We made them slice each other up for a few seconds of fleeting pleasure, so they kill us. The deaths from the flu, as you read, are particularly prevelent in the cock fighters. Ha!!!!!

The wrath of the god of cock is hard, yet surprisingly soft... and we have pissed off the engorged one something fierce with this one... Next chance I get, I am going off planet with some aleins. You just watch me, I'll do it this time!!!
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A Few Seconds Taking Orders

'I am too much like them,' the kid-soldier thinks as he acts on his orders, brings up his M-16 and fires into the doorway. Civilians die. They die. Like his friends. He learns quick to feel as little as possible; has no idea how those unfelt moments will come back to him over the years as mental monsters, raging through his nightmares and waking him screaming in the night.



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HE STOPPED LIVING HERE TODAY

Pain came

hides behind those same old eyes
says the same old words
still surprises this gullible ass

they paint you a smile that hides
the horror of those last seconds

your religion
dies
with you

wish you really were flying away somewhere

you scream in my memories
for a few more laughs
another chance
to wear the smile of a child
then
fall
silently
into photographs


for D & M

TRUER STORIES

Frank Soup woke up the first morning he bore the tattoo on his forehead with no idea what he was about to see written in bold red letters above his eyebrows... in the morning mirror, he blinked his red blurry eyes a few times and focused in and out on the words... then he tried to wipe them off and felt the pain of peeling tiny scabs off the words 'FUCK YOUR MOTHER, KILL YOUR FATHER.' Reading the famous Morrison line from The End made him vomit.

"Argghhh," he yelled loud enough to make a cat at his feet go running out of the room. "A fucking tattoo... they cost... shit." He ran back into his bedroom, looked around on the floor and located his pants, pulled out the wallet and opened it up ... two bucks. Two singles where there had been his entire paycheck. He also found the reciepts from two utilities bill that he couldn't remember paying... Then he found a receipt for the tattoo and groaned again when he saw that he had tipped the guy a hundred bucks.

Indirectly, the six months that it took for him to save up for the surgery that removed his tattooo, led to his great discovery, some twenty years later, the orgasmic. The O was a combination of lasers that stimulated the same glands as sex; only all at once in an incredibly intense manner that could be prolonged indefinatly. Even after the tattoo was gone, his reputation remained worse than ever. No one seemed to forget his six months with the tattoo, and indeed, none ever would. Once he had invented the device, of course, it was a short walk to becoming the new husband of the queen of england, which led to his kingship. True story.


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the satanic santa suit

He had a messy memory of messes. Messes big and small, by governments and bosses and parents and neighbors... messes from the wind itself and quakes and eruptions. Messes from bad luck and bad decisions... and like he told a reporter from the Toledo Blade, he found his escape was to become the characters that he played on the stage. This is very much applauded in movie stars of a certain ilk, but he was a fifty seven year old convienance store clerk who was bucking a company policy on red hats and t-shirts to dress in drag for a small part in a way, way small theater company. This would have been a lot easier had he been gay, and not divorced and actually half hoping to meet a woman someday...

Though none of his customers showed any outward sign that they were judging him, the general frost on the night was apparent to him a half hour into his shift. One young white guy who looked a little gay himself was particularly nervous, made him lay the money down on the counter instead of taking the bills and change out of his hand...

Another couple in their teens burst out laughing the second they were out the door. One of them yelled something he half heard, but he was pretty sure it had to do with 'aids bait.'

He had figured the southern accent he had effected would clue people in that he was an actor, but he was wrong. During a moment of extreme anxiety that came on the crest of three cups of coffee and maybe ten cigarettes and two candy bars, he simply put a small sign out on in front of the register reading, "I'm just rehearsing for a role. Don't be alarmed."

Of course three or four customers later was a gay guy who pointed at the sign and told him, "Man, I guess you think that gay people are alarming or something, huh? That's just pathetic."

He apologized, pulled the sign down... told himself that he should have known better. And he wondered why, no matter how much he wished it were not so, he gave a shit what strangers thought of him... For the first time in over forty years of acting in this or that community production, he wished to all hell that he had just given up on his principals on this one occasion... no one had cared when he talked in character before, or even when he dressed like a hood, or whatever... his boss had shown up one night and bitched him out for being out of his uniform, but mostly the fifty year old leach ignored the night shift completly.

He felt so shitty that he almost just closed early, but that would really have meant his job, and the small commercials he occasionally did were fewer and farther between as he started pushing out gray hairs and an ever larger gut.

An hour or so before his shift ended, a guy in drag came in. The man in a dress stopped just inside the front door, put her wrists on her hips and yelled, "Oh, you are so brave!" Then he bowed to him. When the guy left, he sat back in his chair and looked around the empty store, down the white linolean rows lined with snacks, into the glass door at the frozen pizza, and felt a little better about his decision, though he knew he wouldn't do it again.

He was letting go of a method of acting that he had believed and half expected to feel bad about it but he didn't... he was surprised to find himself relieved, even. 'I really don't have to do that to be a good actor. In fact, I am not going to be santa from the second week in November until December twenty fifth.' The change would be a real break in tradition with him, since he had taken the part time job almost fifteen years ago, and always seemed to almost magically have no parts about then.

He held his resolve right up until what would normally have been his third day in a Santa suit. He was looking through a pile of bills with one hand, sliding them over the coffee table, while with his other he held the tv remote and flipped through the rotation of seventy five cable channels for the third time in the last fifteen minutes, when he lost his inner struggle, just simply allowed himself to meld into Santa, dropped the remote and ignored the bills, walked almost robotically to his closet, reached in and found his coat, hat, pants and beard.... and he stayed in the red costume with itchy facial hair until he got home from a bar at three am christmas morning, fed his goldfish, set his alarm for work, and went to bed.
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I'VE JOINED A BILLY IDOL COVER BAND

We're called Really Idle.

We cover the music from his period between eight and ten years old, before he had any songs or anything... this way we don't have to get together and practice or perform or anything, and we still get to tell people we are in a band. We are looking for a drummer, by the way... even someone who taps on the driving wheel during songs will be okay, because there is obviously no drum in any of our non-songs (we play what we call non-songs, by the way). I hear that there is already quite a big buzz in the music industry about us. At least, uhmm... I think there will be by the time you read this, since this is I guess the first official record that our band exists.

You see, contrary to what is generally believed, I am pretty cool... right? I mean, right???? Oh, fuck you all in your right nostrils with a maggot writhing cucumber infected with pink eye and tape words!!!!
Man, I really wish I had just spent my life raising an army... what a waste of time I am... well, was... until this band thing came along. I know we will go to the top if I really believe hard enough, man. I just know it. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

to get my latest writing....

I wondered why the hell my count had shot up so much recently, and after searching my name on google, I may have found out why... my half famous buddy mentioned me on his 'professional' website. Jason Pettus. He is the one who taught me to look up my name to see who was writing about me. Pretty cool world, real ly.... anyways, he only mentioned this site, since it has an rss feed. My original site, which is where I usually write, is http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com , which is only available on computers, I believe ( or to some degree or another. I don't seem to have enough time to daydream, let alone do all the research I would need to even appear technologically sophisticated). I use this site, actually, to back up the stuff that I like more than most of what I write... even though the first review I have ever read of this blog -- Jason's -- warned people I was 'Rantyer,' than him. I barely put any rants in here compared to the other...
Interesting that he did this, because I too am sick of my ranting. I have tried to be open to letting the blog become whatever the hell was on my mind that day, to be intellectually and emotionally honest, and of course I discovered this was boring as hell. I mean, I trained to be a writer because there really is more to it than just sitting down and letting some magical muse work through me . . . Jack K.'s On The Road is the great myth in this area (sorry to burst your coffee buzz, but it just so happens that Jack edited the hell out of that manuscript).

So, if the rants have bothered you -- as they have me, than let me just say that I am moving into a different area with my blog lately. I have stopped trying to use this thing to biographically explain myself or convince people of my view or vent my spleen about the daily news. I decided that this was just the wrong way to go, that I was preaching to the choir and driving away the sinners (so to speak... I mean, only sinners are interesting to me, because I have had enough self rightous assholes invade my space for one lifetime and let me warn all you asshoples that I am usually armed -- so keep your stories about HOW I SHOULD live and all your various creeds to your own sick, pus seeping selves).



Rants. I sure do like giving rants... they make me feel like I have meaning, though I know better... anyways... just wanted to come in here and write this shit about the other site...










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